


Clothes Make the Man

by Hannibals_Jorts



Series: Like Cracked Porcelain [1]
Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Clothing, Depression, Drug Addiction, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Morphine, Other, Retail Therapy, Shopping, Tailoring, Therapy, Trust, Unrequited Crush, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hannibals_Jorts/pseuds/Hannibals_Jorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor Frankenstein once asked Vanessa for a favor, so now she is asking for one from him. Together, they visit a tailor for some clothing for a mysterious new male friend of Vanessa’s. Although conflicted by his own feelings, Victor assists her to the best of his abilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after Season 2 finale, after the company has gone its separate ways and Vanessa has fallen into despair.
> 
> Part 1 of the “Like Cracked Porcelain” collection.

Victor knocked on the heavy steel door, mindful not to bruise his knuckles.

_It’s been a month… She’ll notice the circles under my eyes, no doubt, and the weight loss. At least, I hope she does._

Within the depths of Grandich Place, he heard shoes tapping on a hardwood floor. He was careful not to scratch his arms, as this caused his puncture scabs to break and bloom dark red spots on his sleeves.

The door opened, and she was there. “Doctor! So happy to see you!” Vanessa’s enormous blue eyes captured him. Her raven hair was twisted on top of her head, leaving the ends to swing as she moved. She wore a dark blue dress with black roses embroidered across the breast and at the hem.

_There, that little pinch of her brow over her nose… She noticed, but she’s saying nothing._

She held her arm out, inviting him in. “Come in, please!”

He made to respond and coughed; the harsh scents of lye, oil soap, and floor polish had accompanied her outside.

“Forgive me, Doctor. I’ve been busy with domestic matters. It’s so easy to let things go when one’s at the mercy of melancholy. I’ve only just got the place up to snuff.”

The floors gleamed, and the un-shuttered windows drew light into the house, giving it a cathedral-like air. Even the lion’s head above the stairs looked well-scrubbed, his mane bright and teeth glistening as if just back from a reputable dentist.

“The house looks lovely,” he said, as was expected of him.

_She’s positively glowing… Do I dare imagine myself to be the cause?_

He followed her inside, clearing his throat. “I was glad to get your card. It seems forever since last we spoke. I’ve been rather melancholic myself in the wake of all-- of all that happened.”

Vanessa went into the study for her coat. “You should have seen it a month ago. It was like any of the charnel houses in which we chased monsters. Worse.”

“I find that hard to credit.” He observed her putting on her coat. “Are we going somewhere?”

She flashed her wicked smile, the one that was all teeth and eyes and on anyone else would have been startling, but which she made into a vision of light. “An adventure, Doctor. Do you recall, I once did a favor for you and your cousin?”

“Ah… Yes, my cousin.” An itch started at his collarbone. “Lily.”

Morphine had erased much of the horror from the Poole house, but not the memory of Lily in Dorian Gray’s salon. Every night, her white dress gushed blood as she and the dreadful fop waltzed through Victor’s nightmares, their laughter ringing in his ears.

_And those terrible things she said…_

“Remind me, what favor?” he said, forcing his hands to his sides.

Vanessa, in the midst of draping her scarf around her shoulders, shot him a mischievous glance. “Why, _shopping_ , my good Doctor. I assisted you in dressing your country cousin; I had hoped you would indulge me and return the favor.”

_An afternoon with Vanessa Ives…_

His heart fluttered as she took his arm.

“You want me to help you shop for a woman?” he asked, befuddled as she steered him toward the door.

She smiled again. “I can manage shopping for women quite well on my own. Today we shop for a man. A… friend of mine has need of a new wardrobe.” She guided him through the door, locking it behind them. Once outside, she again took his arm.

_I’m glad I brought my coat, I might be bleeding now._

Luxuriating in the contact, he belatedly thought to ask, “And he cannot go himself?”

“He’s rather shy. And in some… financial difficulty. He trusts me to make his arrangements. Nothing too demanding, I should think; his tastes are rather plain.”

Victor started. He stopped and faced her, his glassy eyes concerned. “Miss Ives, I hope you aren’t being taken advantage of by some… some… _fancy lad_.”

She stared at him in amused fascination. Her throaty voice broke as she restrained laughter. “My good Doctor… what on Earth is a fancy lad?”

He felt heat rising from his collar. “Well it’s… It’s a man who takes advantage of well-to-do women. They prey on the upper classes, you see. Yes, a young man-- handsome, debonair-- takes up with a sophisticated woman of means. Soon your house will be overrun with poets, artists, and hangers-on, and-- and you’ll be footing the bill! For wine, velvet tailcoats, and paying for some wretch’s book of poetry to be published…” He trailed off, aware of how loud his voice had become.

To his relief, she stifled laughter and took his arm again.

He swallowed, blinking. “And now it’s out, I realize how foolish it all sounds. I sound like someone’s maiden aunt, lecturing about the evils of cigarette-smoking and rouge. I… I suppose it’s rather unlikely someone would take advantage of you, Miss Ives.”

“Yes. _Rather_. But thank you for worrying for me.” She snuggled against his shoulder, and within the depths of his sleeves, he knew he was bleeding.

_Ah well, my clothes needed laundering anyway._

She nodded at the street ahead, where a row of men’s tailoring shops waited. Well-dressed gentlemen of all ages and sizes roamed up and down the cobbled street, peering in windows and swinging their silver-topped canes. Canvas awnings in restrained colors fluttered their edges in the sharp breeze.

“And now Doctor, if you’d assist me. Perhaps that shop, with the striped awning? And pray…” Her voice lowered and she shot a shifty glance around the street. “… Keep on the lookout for any _fancy lads.”_

 

Inside, the shop was redolent of cigars and mustache wax. Dark green carpet lay underfoot, and racks and shelves of gleaming mahogany turned the dim interior into a labyrinth.

Victor hated such manly spaces. He was in the habit of hurriedly buying several items of clothing at once and tailoring them himself. But today, he pored over the racks and cubbies. He was intent on providing service above that of the attendant, who was scandalized to find a woman unabashedly in his shop.

“Now see here,” the fussy little man began.

“Size?” Victor asked, snatching the attendant’s tape measure and ignoring him completely.

Vanessa settled onto a chair near a case of cufflinks. She leaned over the case as she answered, “About the same as Mister Chandler in width, perhaps an inch or two shorter.”

“About eighty kilograms, forty-inch chest, six-foot-one to six-foot-two,” Victor translated, stepping to a rack of shirts. He draped the tape measure around his neck as he searched. Wooden hangers clicked against one another as he flicked through the racks.

“Very good,” she said in admiration.

“Call it a hobby,” he said as he searched.

_We’re shopping for someone the same size as Mister Chandler, who is not Mister Chandler, who I note is still mysteriously absent. Who could it be? Does she have a new suitor?_ He forced away a tiny hook of jealousy that threatened to catch in his heart. _You’ve never been anything but a cherished younger brother to her, and you know it._

A man being fitted for a suit came out of the back room in naught but a shirt, undershorts, and his socks. He spotted Miss Ives, blanched, and disappeared back into the room with a _Hmf!_

Victor realized he’d been thinking of Ethan’s face and hair color. “Coloring-- Is he fair or dark?” 

_Could it be Henry? He would be about the same size, although slimmer. He and Miss Ives might move in the same social circles._ He bit his lip, his hand tightening on the wooden hanger. 

“Fair. Very fair. I would compare his complexion to fine porcelain, if porcelain were strong as steel.” 

_ Who would have thought listening to someone else wax poetical on their love would be so damaging?  _

Victor raised an eyebrow. “Eyes?” 

She lifted a black pocket square, a secret smile playing at her lips. “Molten metal, fresh from the crucible.”

He resisted the urge to shake his head. _Pale brown, then._

“Do you think he would wish to complement his colors, or contrast them?” 

Her raven brows drew together in thought. “Contrast. He’s a man for conflict, certainly. He’s made for the dark, but the sort of darkness that is miasmic: all colors swirled so that only the hint of hue is present. Color beats under his darkness like flame through smoke.” 

He heard the attendant give a whimper of despair. 

Victor stared at the racks of clothing. “So… _black_  clothes _,_ then?” 

The intensity left her, and she offered him an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Doctor. I know I’m not making this simple.” 

“You haven’t the ability to be simple.” He set down a pile of black clothes on the table and threw a shy glance at her from the corner of his eye. “That’s why we care for you, so.” 

_Did I say that? Did she hear?_

“Thank you, Doctor.” She stood and moved to examine the clothes. The shirts were uniform black linen with crisp lines, and the pants wool. 

_ She didn’t hear. Ah, well. I have her trust in so many other things.  _

He gestured at the pile as he walked to a rack of vests. “Those are just suggestions. You’ll need to have them tailored to his exact measurements, of course; sleeves and trouser legs taken up, and such.” 

“Of course,” she agreed, holding up one of the shirts. She held one end of the hanger, and took the end of the opposite sleeve, placing it at her waist. And then, with no more thought than if she were attending one of Dorian Gray’s ghastly soirees, she began to dance. 

Victor froze, transfixed by the sight of her willowy form swaying about the shop. Black tendrils of hair escaped her twist and bounced against her neck.

_ Oh… God… If only…  _

“This seems right,” she said, flashing a grin over her shoulder at Victor. “Perhaps I shall open up Sir Malcom’s drawing room, and have people into the house again. Music and dancing… that’s what the world needs, wouldn’t you agree Doctor? We shall have to entice Mr. Lyle to help us plan it.” 

At the sight of her sweeping across the floor with the empty shirt, the hook caught hold. Victor bit his lip, looking away. 

He nodded toward an area of the shop he had been steadfastly avoiding. “I’ll leave you to sort out the undergarments.”


End file.
